


This is a Kissing Story

by bookjunkiecat



Category: Princess Bride (1987)
Genre: Flirting, Friends With Benefits, Friendship, Introspection, M/M, Major Character Death Is In The Past, Mild Leather Kink, Montoya speaks Spanish, Occasional lovers, Oral Sex, The MCD: Buttercup & their child, and snark, here be sex y'all, with feeeeelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:41:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25246309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookjunkiecat/pseuds/bookjunkiecat
Summary: Now a widower, Westley lives a quiet life on his remote farm. About the only company he gets are rare visits from Montoya...who always rides in with hot blood and hungry hands.
Relationships: Inigo Montoya/Westley
Comments: 6
Kudos: 45





	This is a Kissing Story

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to PuffleLock for her invaluable feedback. All mistakes are my own! This is my first Princess Bride fic. I kinda want to write a follow up to this. Someone tell me no. I have too many WIP.
> 
> Spanish translation in the end notes.

The sun was sinking towards the hills when Westley heard the far-off tattoo of hooves coming through the thicket of trees and undergrowth which spread between the coast and his farm. Slapping Rocinante on her still-winter-thick rump, he murmured at her to head into her stall. Dapple, true to form, was already head-first in his manger, busily eating after a long day in the field. Closing the stall doors, Westley reached above the barn door and brought down the burlap wrapped sword he hadn’t handled in years, aside from regular cleaning. Sliding the shining steel free of the scabbard, he hoped he wouldn’t need it.

The sleek belt looked ridiculous around the waist of his linsey-woolsey trousers, and his thick farmer’s hobnails had none of the supple glamour of his old sea-faring pirate captain’s boots. Of course, those hadn’t been suited for farm life any more than he had. But once Westley committed to a path, he stuck to it as stubbornly as a cocklebur to a saddle blanket. 

He’d come a long way from his days as the Dread Pirate Roberts; many miles and many years had passed. Westley wasn’t unhappy with the seven years he’d spent as the reclusive farmer Westley, husband of Buttercup and father to the fragile Lily. If he regretted anything, it was that he’d lost them both after just a few years. He’d considered selling his farm and striking out, seeking the adventure he’d come to crave like a drug. But the two graves under the willows kept him tethered here the last three years as surely as if he were chained.

Holding one hand on the hilt of his sword, Westley walked calmly out into the barnyard, turning so that the setting sun was behind him and would be in his visitor’s eyes as they approached. Now that they were drawing closer he could discern only one horse, steel-shod, moving faster than any of the farm nags in the parts. His heart picked up its beat, and he was aware of his pulse in his wrists, the sweat beaded along his spine, the dust coating his boots. It wasn’t certain, but his gut was telling him his visitor was none other than--

The horse, a shining chestnut with a flowing mane, rounded the bend in the road, coming into view. A beautiful, welcome sight, bearing the slim, vital figure of a familiar form. With his dark curls foaming out from beneath a sleek black mask and headscarf, the Dread Pirate Roberts looked like doom descending. 

Heart pounding now, Westley forced himself to stand still, affecting a casual air. He couldn’t stop the smile from spreading across his face, however, as his happiness rose in direct proportion to the wicked smile gleaming below the black leather. Dust swirled around the horse’s hooves as the Dread Pirate Roberts reined in, looking like danger personified. “Hello, old friend,” Westley greeted, going for a jaunty tone. “Bit surprised to see you here.”

“I told you I would return in the spring,” Montoya said, leaping from the horse’s back. He tossed the reins over the fence-post and descended on Westley, arms out. As he swept him into a hug, Westley let the other man lift him just a fraction, willing to rest himself safe in the more muscular man’s arms. His trim mustache tickled Westley’s neck as he breathed him in,  _ “Por Dios, _ I’ve missed you.”

“It was a long winter,” was all Westley said, but his old friend was used to his laconic ways, and he murmured understandingly.

“Will you keep me here all day in the barnyard, Westley? Or may I come inside and greet you properly?”

The dark promise in Montoya’s silken Spanish tones chased shivers down Westley’s spine. “I’d like to be greeted improperly, if it’s all the same to you.”

His hazel eyes crinkling, Montoya laughed, “I’m glad to see you’re as impossible as ever, old friend.”

“And why should I change?” Westley asked, retrieving the horse’s reins and leading him toward the barn. “Is this beast stolen?”

“I’m a pirate!”

“Which isn’t an answer.”

“It’s a sort of answer,” Montoya teased, following him into the warm, humid dimness of the barn. “But no. I paid handsomely for the innkeeper’s swiftest horse.” He crowded up behind Westley, breath hot on his neck, calloused hands firm on his hips. “I couldn’t wait to see you.”

Westley let his head drop, relished the hot kisses that trailed down his neck, “I’m dirty.”

Laughter rumbling his chest against Westley’s back, Montoya agreed, “Filthy. I love it.”

He laughed, “I meant, I need to bathe.”

Soft lips caressed his neck and he hardened. “I know what you mean,  _ cariño.  _ I like you dirty, like to taste your sweat...I want to lick the backs of your knees, the small of your back…” he sighed, “I’ve been dreaming about you for months. Let me have my fill.”

Pressing his palms against the wall of the barn, Westley let his eyes drift close, barely aware of the horse placidly walking into an empty stall. Fumbling, he reached out to close the stall door. “The horse--we should--”

“In a moment,” Montoya murmured, sliding hot palms around Westley’s waist and smoothing them over the front of his shirt, rucking it up, seeking his skin. “Let me drink you in.” His voice dropped deeper, huskier still, “I’m like a man lost in the desert, thirsting for water ...you’re my oasis.”

Unable to breathe for a minute, Westley longed to return his passionate words with reassurance, to try and impart how deeply lonely he was in the time between visits. But that wasn’t his way--wasn’t their way. Instead he pressed one palm over the hand Montoya had splayed on his chest and then stepped away. “The horse.”

Once the chestnut was watered, fed and brushed, they plunged their hands into the bucket of water he kept inside the door and washed their hands, splashing their faces and necks. Despite Montoya’s words, Westley was aware of his need for a proper cleaning. He fully intended on enticing the other man into joining him in making their ablutions in the hip bath, but as soon as they were through the door into the farmhouse, Montoya was pushing him up against the wall, hands everywhere, kisses scorching. 

Bath forgotten, Westley tugged roughly at Montoya’s clothes, laughing when their swords tangled briefly. The amused flash of bright eyes told him the other man was recalling their first meeting as well. “Nice sword,” Westley purred in a silken tone, and the hazel-gold eyes went at once brilliant and dark.

Dueling with their tongues, the two men wrestled for dominance, stripping one another ruthlessly of their clothes, stopping only to tug off their boots. Montoya’s close fitting Italian-leather boots were harder to remove, and Westley gave him a friendly push, forcing him to sit on the bed. Kneeling down, he eased them off, one work-roughened hand cupping the back of the Spainard’s muscled calf as he eased the tight leather down. The moan it earned him filled his blood with an answering heat. He nearly abandoned his task, fell upon him, seeking touch, heat, friction. Keeping his eyes on Montoya’s, Westley leaned over and trailed his tongue slowly down the inner calf. The smell and feel of the supple, well-oiled leather made his thickening cock strain.

_ “íÓrale!” _ Montoya breathed, eyes flashing. He stroked himself, hips arching off the mattress, biting into his lip, eyes hot. “Come here.” His hands were demanding, his eyes beseeching.

Taking his time, Westley pulled off the other boot and stripped Montoya’s snug trousers down, flinging them over his shoulder. Grinning, he leaned over, pushing the other man back onto the soft mattress, sliding over him, chest to chest, thighs rubbing. Hissing, he closed his eyes at the sweet slide of hair-roughened flesh over his. A shake entered his body, a fine tremor of need. Suddenly ravenous he plundered Montoya’s mouth with his tongue, drinking in the other man’s hungry moans. It was always like this, a friendly welcome, a little flirtation and then suddenly they were unable to keep their hands off of one another. This was Montoya’s seventh visit in two and a half years and Westley was beginning to suspect their need for one another wasn’t going to diminish.

Work-roughened hands squirmed down inside his own loosened trousers, gripping his ass cheeks tight. His tongue plundered Westley’s mouth eagerly as he rolled them, briefly gaining the upper hand. “I dream of your mouth when we are parted,” Montoya breathed, the scrape of his mustache coaxing shivers out of Westley. “A king would give up his kingdom for your kiss.”

Westley stilled, shocked at the statement. They weren’t usually so, so  _ open _ in their affection for one another. It wasn’t done. It wasn’t them. “Alas,” he said as lightly as he could, “You have no kingdom to give up.” He rolled them again and slid down the Spainard’s body, nipping lightly as he went. Nuzzling at the musky smell of desire rising from his groin, he trailed his lips over the crease of Montoya’s hip, scratched his blunt nails through the lavish hair at Montoya’s groin, before he brushed his lips over the silken crown of his prick. Moaning, Montoya plunged his fingers into Westley’s hair, fisting it tightly. He growled, taking the other man down to the root, and smirked in triumph at the shout it gained him. 

He was skilled, and it had been too many months between visits; it did not take long for Montoya to grumble out a warning.

Westley ignored him and swallowed the bittersweet release, softening the motions of his mouth until Montoya shivered and made a wordless noise, pushing weakly at him. He placed a damp kiss on the crown and eased his way back up Montoya’s prone body. Straddling his waist, he watched as Montoya slowly came back to life, lifting sleepy lids to smile at him. “Your mouth is definitely the thing of which dreams are made,  _ cariño.  _ Come here, let me taste you on my tongue.”

Shuffling up the bed, Westley planted his knees on either side of Montoya’s torso and leaned forward, bracing his hands on the headboard. He hissed as the soft, clever tongue lapped at his slit, gathering moisture and spreading it as he slowly took him into his mouth. The pace was slow, tormenting, and he wouldn’t have changed a moment of it. Montoya wasn’t the only one who had dreams when they were apart. He had thought often of their last encounter, and looked forward impatiently to the next. As always, the reality was a thousand times better than his fantasies. 

Montoya grasped his hips eagerly in his broad palms, urging Westley to rock his hips, to thrust into his mouth. The wet drag of lips and tongue, the suggestion of teeth thrilled him, and Westley gasped helplessly, rolling his hips. He was so bloody close…!

Cooing at him encouragingly, Montoya reached up, put one strong hand around his throat, tightening just enough to make Westley’s breath come a little short, his excitement to increase from the suggestion of danger. His eyes flew open and he gaped down at Montoya, who pulled back long enough to grin evilly, and command, “Come,  _ mi hermoso hombre.  _ Come for me.”

Shuddering, Westley strained to thrust faster, gasping sharply when the other man swallowed around him, squeezing him tight with the motion of his throat. Emptying himself into Montoya’s mouth, Westley rocked in little motions, a restless moan unraveling. Finally he stilled, blinked open his eyes. 

Montoya, lips shining with spit and release, looked at him with blazing eyes,  _ “Tan bueno para mi.”  _ His voice was rough from the abuse he’d encouraged, and Westley shuddered, still on edge, for all he’d just come. He allowed Montoya to coax him down to lie in his arms, and relaxed, enjoying the warmth and closeness of another body tangled with his own in his all too lonely bed.

Petting his stomach, Montoya murmured to him in Spanish. Westley, who had a pretty good grasp of Spanish from his time as the Dread Pirate Roberts, pretended not to hear him. Listening to Montoya’s affectionate whispers would only lead to heartache. That wasn’t what they were. It wasn’t why they came together. It wasn’t anything he would allow himself to want.

Instead, he closed his eyes, letting himself settle into sleep. In an hour or two they would rise, rested; seek and find relief in one another’s arms once more, and then he would send Montoya on his way until the next time.

Hours later, bathed, fed, and rested, Montoya leaned over Westley from horseback, taking his jaw in one gloved hand. Westley shuddered with faint need at the memories the smell and feel of the leather evoked. It took all his considerable willpower not to turn his head and bite Montoya’s hand, to tug on the glove with his teeth. To urge him from his horse, back into the house. To tumble into the well-used bed and make sweet love until the sun set and rose again.

Instead, Westley smiled into his eyes as Montoya gave him one last kiss. 

“Farewell for now,  _ mi muy querido amigo. _ Take care of yourself. Don’t forget me.”

“As if I could,” Westley scoffed lightly, slapping Montoya’s mount on the rump. He stepped back, breaking their connection. He let the veil slip back over his eyes, and saw an answering coolness enter Montoya’s. “Come for a visit if you find yourself nearby.” His tone was light, his chin raised. There was nothing about him to indicate that he wanted to drag the other man down and keep him.

Or perhaps there was. Perhaps his eyes had given him away.

Montoya considered him, some of the earlier warmth returning to his eyes. He rolled the words in his mouth, weighing them before speaking. “As you wish, Westley.” He grinned suddenly, wheeling his horse around, eyes bright, “As you wish…”

**Author's Note:**

> Por Dios: Oh my God; my God; man alive  
> Cariño: darling, sweetheart, love  
> íÓrale!: used as encouragement, an expression of shock, surprise or excitement  
> Mi hermoso hombre: My beautiful man  
> Tan bueno para mi: So good for me  
> mi muy querido amigo: my very dear friend


End file.
